Fixing You
by Lovely Little Knives
Summary: It's hard to carry on when you know you're too broken to be fixed. People lose hope in you. You lose hope in yourself. But sometimes, there'll be someone willing to go the extra mile to pick up the pieces. They're usually the ones who end up fixing you.
1. Nightmare

**Oh please please please don't kill me! I know I've deleted so much of my other stuff! I really wanted to clean out my stories and leave the ones I still like/am working on. Things have been a bit slow, and while I'm sure updates on other stories will be slow, so will this one. But I'm going as fast as I can! Please bear with me!**

**Anyway, if you've read my Glato/Clato oneshot, you'll already know that after months, nay – **_**years**_** of resistance, I've finally given into the Hunger Games obsession. My mind cracked, but whatever. I'm pleased with this fandom, although I can't help despising Peeta (and Katniss isn't my favourite either – Haymitch got my opinion of her pretty spot-on: she's about as charming as a dead slug). But I really like the other tributes (Foxface and the Careers FTW!), and the endless possibilities of pairings and backstories because we know next to nothing about them! So I hope you find this enjoyable, not all that cliché, and review if you find time. I'm eager to see your opinions!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, or any other creation that belongs to Suzanne Collins**

**(PS: Azzie – I know I said I'd be writing my Clato story first, but I just found it too complicated to write and I needed something calmer! Love you, hope you still love me XD I'm still your darling Esther, aren't I?)**

* * *

_The countdown echoed throughout District 5, as well as every other District and the Capitol. Twenty-four teenagers – some proud, some nervous – stood on pedestals as they entered the final five seconds of humanity, and possibly of their lives. When that siren went off, peace would be like an untouchable dream. Heads would roll, blood would spill, and this year it seemed like the Bloodbath would be all it took to declare a winner. The Careers were tough, and the other Districts weren't; it wasn't difficult to piece together._

_Her brother was a tribute; chosen, of course. He would never volunteer for this. He stood on the pedestal nervously, looking neither proud nor at ease like some of the others. There was genuine fear in his green eyes, and hers mirrored them in every way. She didn't want to lose him, and she was too young to realise she was about to._

_An aging couch was what hid her from view; she wasn't supposed to watch this. Her parents forbid it until she was old enough to be in the Games herself. Until now, she'd obeyed her father's stern word, but this year, how could she not? This was her brother! She was sneaky, and she needed to watch him. They hadn't spotted her yet. Luck was on her side. It was scary enough before the countdown had finished, and as she peeked a curious eye out from behind her tattered doll, afraid to look but unable to tear her gaze away, she witnessed it._

_Not everyone in District 5 watched the Games every waking moment; there was too much work to be done with the Capitol depending on them for energy and power, but even those who hadn't been watching knew what had happened as soon as they heard her heart-wrenching screams. Things tended to echo off the buildings around there – even the tiniest whisper could be heard. So naturally, the cries and shrieks of a child scarred for life by the witness of her brother's brutal death were not missed with ease._

_She wished she had not seen it. One second – one second, was all they had left until it began, until it would be over again, but her brother panicked. There seemed to be no distinct passage of time between the moment his foot met the ground and the moment the ground was flying everywhere, courtesy of the buried landmines. _

_Her parents, sitting on the edge of their seats, were not as startled by the explosion as they were by the sudden, banshee-like noise their daughter (who they had presumed was still playing in her room) had made. One of them, she couldn't see who through her scrunched up, teary eyes, rushed over in their own fit of sobs to scoop her up. They cradled her gently, but their distraught state was not subtle either, and her mother gently hushed in her ear that she shouldn't have been watching. She was only six years old, too young to witness such a horrific event._

_It took no more than an hour for the Games to finish. District 5 had lost; District 2 had won, like most years. But it didn't matter to her, why should it? She just wanted her brother back. Other families in the District came to their house, offering their condolences for their dreadful loss, despite it being inevitable. She didn't see who the people were, she was being rocked gently to sleep in her room by her mother. Any other day, she'd be too old for this treatment, but she couldn't deny that she was hurting. Visions of her brother, bloodied and scattered amongst the disturbed earth, taunted her behind closed eyes. In front of open eyes, the world was simply a different place. Suddenly everyone was an enemy, everything was a weapon, and every day determined who lived and who died._

_The world was a battlefield._

* * *

When I am finally wrenched from the dark, disturbed oblivion that is my sleep, I can't help the scream that escapes my lips. It's short-lived, but loud. My upper-body jolts forward, out of my soft bed. Now that I'm sitting, although my surroundings are shrouded in darkness, I recognise the room almost immediately. Heartbreakingly, it isn't my own. Mine is smaller – _much_ smaller, with a bookshelf lining the whole south-facing wall. It smells of old paper, of _home_. This room smells of perfumes and fresh linen and larkspur. It's unfamiliar, almost intimidating. If I hadn't awoken from the nightmare that has been plaguing my rare, infrequent moments of sleep for the past eleven years, I might've let it register on a more emotional level.

I pull back the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the double bed. They're shaking uncontrollably, covered in a thin, glistening layer of cold sweat. In fact, so is the rest of my body. I was never good at dealing with this, but luckily the chance almost never came around. When it did, it was absolute hell to manage. Truth is, I don't really know whether to be concerned or glad. Should I be glad, for it is the first wink of sleep lasting longer than fifteen minutes I've had in almost two weeks, or concerned by the fact that it's been eleven years since…since the incident, and I'm still struggling to get over the loss? Call it how you see it, but I can't help taking both sides.

Breathing in deeply, I grip the edge of the mattress for support and attempt to push myself onto my unsteady feet. It doesn't work. The victorious feeling of being able to stand on such shaky limbs lasts only a second before my knees fall to the floor like dead weights. A puff of air blows my hair out of my face in exasperation. _C'mon!_ I think, _You're stronger than this!_

But my thoughts don't motivate me. I sigh at the knowledge that that's possibly the biggest lie I've ever told myself. I'm not strong in the slightest.

Eventually I decide that I've spent enough time on the floor to regain my strength. My legs, at least, have stopped shaking, though the same can't be said for my arms and the pace of my heartbeat. I pull myself to my feet, unsteady at first, and shuffle as quickly as I dare to the bathroom. The cold tiles are both a shock and a relief at the same time, sending calming chills up my body. Automatic lights flicker on above me, bright and pristine. They aren't yellow and warm like the lights back home, but I guess we don't get to keep as much of the solar power we harness. It's a bit weird to stand here knowing that these powerful lights were all because of the workers in my district, my mother and father included, yet we aren't even entitled to five per cent of it.

The mirror is big and flawless, taking up the upper-half of the wall above the bench with its impossibly smooth surface. My reflection is less than impressive compared to it and the Capitol's quirky charm. Compared to _any_ mirror, _any_ district. Even the District 12 tributes are more eye-catching than I am. I caught no one's attention in the parade, or very little at least. Less than my district partner, anyway. But he's younger, happier, more naturally attractive. I don't know how much makeup was used to conceal the dark circles under my eyes and my seemingly permanent tear-stained cheeks. It was a lot, though.

I glare into the mirror and sneer at the creature staring back at me. Ugly is the word that comes to mind. My red hair, yellow eyes and shallow cheeks make me look more like a fox than anything. And it's not just me who thinks that. It's everyone. I saw the girl from 12 glance my way, raise an eyebrow. So did the boy from 1, and the girl from 8, and the two from 4. Almost everyone did, except for the little girl from 11. I can already tell I won't be getting any sponsors in the arena. While most people think the Capitol looks for skill and personality, I know from years of observation that that's only half of it. The other half is all about first impressions in appearance: how you're dressed, your natural features, your posture and presentation. I didn't impress anyone, even though I tried my best to smile. Honestly, _I_ wouldn't sponsor me, so why would anyone else?

Cold water splashes my face before I realise my subconscious effort to clear my head. The cool liquid over my hands and face feels refreshing, and I'm sorely tempted to take a decidedly unladylike gulp of it. But I repress the urge, not because it would be ill-mannered but because I know I shouldn't get used to being able to drink whenever I want. Water is a rare find in District 5. Usually we substitute with some form of diluted alcohol or juice from whatever berries we find. It quenches our thirst enough to get through the day, but it's hard to accept that our main supply of drinking water was contaminated a long time ago. Even if we were able to purify it, how long would it last before the factories leaked contaminated waste again?

As I twist the cold water tap and bring my head up from the basin, the first thing that catches my eye is my district token, which I'd thrown in a fit of anger and desperation against the mirror when I'd first come into the oversized bathroom. Whether I was trying to push reminders of home as far away of possible or trying to break the mirror and be rid of my own reflection, I'm not sure now. One thing's for sure: both attempts failed miserably. Sighing, I pick up my token and rub my fingers over the rough needlework. The tiny thing is no bigger than my palm. It's something my family likes to call a stress doll, for when I get too angry or upset or lonely. Whether I want to throw it or cry into it or talk to it, I can do that. My mom said it was therapeutic, but honestly I've never seen it change any of my problems. The only reason I brought it with me was because Robyn begged me to. She said I needed it, in case I got real lonely or sad, so it would remind me of her.

Robyn's my little sister. She's cute as a button and won't hurt a fly, but she's braver than me. So much braver. She's only six, and I didn't have the heart to tell her I probably wouldn't be coming back. Mom and Dad would've probably talked to her as soon as I'd left, to save things from repeating themselves by preparing her. Not that it would make any difference. Death is death. They would've said something along the lines of "If she doesn't come back, she'll be waiting for you. If she does, you can wait for her," because truth is, it's not just me who's running out of time.

It breaks my heart every time I think about it, but I can't escape the fact that Robyn probably won't make it past the age of ten. We don't know what she has. No one does, but the local doctors suspected some kind of acute disease that came with her deafness, or caused it. What would it matter anyway? We hardly have enough medicine to care for those who are in dire need of it (though I'm more than convinced she's one of those). Even if there was enough medicine, we wouldn't know what to give her. It's better just to accept that she'll be gone long before her time. As will I. I can wait for her.

I stubbornly push the gathering tears off my face with the heel of my hand. No, I can't cry now. Even if there aren't any cameras, it feels as though they're always watching you – the Capitol. They make me sick to my stomach, the lot of them. They're the sadistic butchers, and we're their sheep. We're useful for other things for a short amount of time, until they finally get bored and lead us to slaughter. It's cruel. It's sick. It's humiliating above all else! To be slaughtered on live television, for you family and the rest of Panem to see! What I find worse is that we can't do anything about it. A rebellion is the reason why we're in this mess, starting another one would be taking about a dozen steps backwards!

Groaning, tired of staring blankly at my reflection, I turn back to my darkened room. I almost scream again when I find the doorway blocked by another figure, but quickly compose myself. It's only the small Avox girl, who's one of the many that care for my district partner and I. She stares at me patiently, her blue eyes big and beautiful, before offering me a tiny hand to lead me back to my bed. This girl can't be any older than eight, and while all the other Avoxes I've seen (who are at least twice her age) are depressed and inwardly loathing their positions, she seems to be…happy, almost delighted with her situation. Our mentor, Magna, told us both that when she was staying in the Capitol, she's caught rumours of two supposed 'types' of Avoxes: the servants and the volunteers. Servant Avoxes were those who had been punished for a crime while volunteer Avoxes, who were still retained with their tongues cut out, had happily volunteered for the position. This girl seemed so happy, tending to me (while my district partner had an Avox boy a little older than himself tending to his needs), it almost seemed like…no. I couldn't believe it when Magna told me, and now I find myself flat out refusing to accept that such a little thing had been happy to have her tongue cut out and made a slave. It's revolting! Still, I suppose it's better than if she'd been dragged away kicking and screaming.

The bathroom lights flicker off as I reach my bed, but the little girl has turned my bedside lamp on. Its light is orange and flickers like an actual flame, but I find the air next to it is as stone cold as the hearts of the Capitol people. Despite not wanting to return to my nightmares, I obediently crawl in as the Avox girl pulls back the covers. As she tucks them back around me, I can't help feeling six years old again. The scratchiness of the linen makes my skin crawl, like the mattress has split and set free millions of ants to scuttle over my body. I instantly want to get up again, to take the soft duck-feather pillow and sleep on the other end of the room, but a pair of small hands pushes me back down. The small porcelain smiles down at me young and innocent and it reminds me of Robyn. My mind's urge to break down and cry is almost too strong now. I want to grab this girl in my arms, tell her I'm sorry this has happened to her, because I can't believe she'd do this to herself. Who would _let_ people take them away and make them slaves? I guess it's just another aspect of the butchers the lambs.

Embarrassingly she sees my agitation, smiles sympathetically, and reaches for something next to the bedside lamp. A small remote with a screen. She points it at the wall, which is more of a window in its translucency, and scrolls through the options with her finger, before finally settling on one with a satisfied grin. Instantly the wall (or window) lights up like a big television screen. I can't help the tears now. Right in front of me, as if it were actually a gateway rather than a screen, is an image of what we call the Solar Fields of District 5. It's an endless stretch of rolling green hills with solar panels set in a grid for as far as the eye can see in either direction. Occasionally there'll be a vacant area of grass where the younger children love to play, but as for me I prefer to settle myself underneath the panels themselves, where I can read for hours. If anyone came looking for me, they'd have a hard time finding me with all those acres to check. And here it was, right in front of me. I'm not sure whether my tears are out of happiness or sadness, because I'm both. Of course I'm happy to see something so familiar to ease my nerves, but being upset isn't out of the question. I'll probably never see those hills again.

I kindly take the tissue the young girl has offered me, who obviously isn't naïve enough to worry she's made me upset. In fact, she couldn't look happier. I wonder how long she's been doing this – three years? Two? One? Or am I the first tribute she's cared for? In any case, she seems to love making people feel comfortable whatever their circumstance.

Just like Robyn.

I smile warmly at her and press my hands together in front of my chest. Our district's sign of respect. It used to be used only in prayer for those who practiced that sort of stuff, but now that religion and worship has almost died out it's mainly used whenever someone deserves to be thanked more than words can express. She cocks her head to one side, a bemused smile on her face, before hesitantly returning it. The remote is placed back on my bedside table for when I might want to use it and the lamp is turned off, leaving us in the projected daylight of District 5. Then she turns on the heels of her sparkling white shoes and walks back out of the room. Just like a servant would be expected to. It frustrates me that she isn't even slightly inclined to act differently to a punished Avox. But perhaps that was why she volunteered in the first place.

Despite the atmosphere of home calming me from the giant screen, I'm convinced it will do nothing for my sleep. It will still come in short, stuttered intervals, and when it doesn't it will be plagued by my nightmare. Always the same one. But nothing can help it now.

Snuggling down on the side that faces the image of home, I feel my eyelids become heavy. Tomorrow, and the days to follow, won't be easy. I haven't really met any of the other tributes yet, but I know for sure the Careers will be terrifying. Still, I can't let it sway me. _I'm strong_, I tell myself, but it still doesn't fool my own mind. As I drift off, my last thought is the most disturbingly true acknowledgment I've ever had and ever will have:

_I am going to die._

* * *

***points to review button* You know…that review button looks awfully lonely. I think you should give it some attention ;)**


	2. Torment

**I try not to make a habit of putting ANs at the start/end of every chapter, but I'd just like to say that I haven't read Catching Fire or Mockinjay yet (because books here are so expensive) and I'm not too sharp on Hunger Games either. Just the minute details. So I just want to say that please, no spoilers for books 2 and 3, and I'm sorry if this is a little too much like the movie (even though I try to even it out). So this may have things from the movie AND books in it – I'm sorry in advance =\**

* * *

Ignoring the other tributes, I find, is something easier said than done. All being in one room together, I'm not sure how I thought I could overlook them all. Because I most certainly can't. All that skill, viciousness, bloodlust, contempt for one another…how can I possibly not let that get to me? I haven't even been training for an hour and I'm already scared for myself. Thankfully it's against the rules to attack one another in training. There will be more than enough time for that in the arena, we're told.

I stick to things less…physical. Fighting has never been my forte. I've always been better at mental challenges: puzzles and riddles and problem-solving. If there's anything I can hope to do to ensure my survival (for the time being, at least), it's to outsmart my enemy. I wonder how many of them know what types of berries and plants are edible, or will they just rely on sponsors for food? The Careers can probably afford to think like that, but not me. I will surely have to find my own food. Since I can't even kill a live animal myself (and I doubt I'd find any dead birds or rabbits lying around in the open), it seems I'll have to stick to roots and berries. That is, if the arena is indeed an environment where those sorts of things grow. If not…well, I'll probably starve to death before anyone can get me.

The training room reminds me of a prison. With its high stone walls, cold floor and monotone shade of grey covering every surface that isn't training equipment, it's a complete wonder tributes haven't gone insane in the past. Sure, it's pretty big – big enough to give me a fair distance from everyone else, but the feeling that every minute brings these walls closer and closer together will get to me soon enough. I feel as at ease as I can at the edible plants station, which almost everyone else seems to think is a waste of time. This is fine with me: I can be here as long as I want now. If they'd rather swing weapons to intimidate each other and risk poisoning themselves, it doesn't concern me. What _does_ concern me, though, is how low my training score will be if this is all I do.

Eventually I leave the edible plants station to learn how to set up snares. Partly because I don't want to score low by making the Gamemakers think I only know one skill, also because it'll be a way to get meat without killing the animals myself, but mostly because the girl from 12 decided she wanted to come over. Maybe I overreacted – as soon as I spied her take particular interest in the station out of the corner of my eye, I stopped what I was doing and all but darted away. Normally District 12 is pretty pathetic, no offence to them. The fact that they've made such a big impression on the Capitol this year, and only in the tribute parade, makes me wonder whether either of them can actually win this thing. I hope so, even if that means hoping I die. The girl, who looks to be about my age or a year younger, deserves to win after what she did for her sister. Out of all of us, she's probably the only tribute that _deserves_ to win this. If she can get past the Careers.

The Careers this year have more potential than usual, though none of them deserve to be crowned a victor. From the corner of my eye, as I tie together a pretty pathetic-looking snare (that will no doubt catch me nothing in the actual Games), I watch them train. The thought ran through my mind that if I learn their techniques, I could possibly escape them. But that thought dies quickly as I watch the boy from 2 decapitate a training dummy in one swift movement, while his district partner – easily two years younger than me – impales about eight dummies in the chest with throwing knives in two seconds flat. How can I ever hope to outrun that?

Thankfully, 4 doesn't seem like much competition this year. I'm sure only the girl is a Career, but she doesn't appear to have any specific talent. The boy is only thirteen, by the looks of it. I highly doubt he's a Career at such a young age. Or, at the least, he can't be a very experienced one. As for District 1, they'll most likely team up with 2 for the time being. They have a spear thrower and probably the only person in this whole room that can use a bow and arrow. Both of them will make useful assets, though it's obvious who runs the team. They're all lambs and the boy from 2 is the lion. He'll pick them off as he sees fit, along with the rest of us. The only thing any of us can hope for is that it will be quick, but it's a no-brainer that not everyone will have that privilege. Career Tributes from 2 are famous for being sadistic, for playing with their food.

"Well, well, well…what have we got here?" a voice sniggers coolly from behind me. My blood turns cold, despite knowing I have nothing to fear under the watchful eyes of Peacekeepers. I turn my head, failing to keep my whimper inaudible as I see both tributes from District 1 standing over me. The boy – Marvel – is my age, but you'd think differently considering how much taller he is. The shadow he casts over me under the training room's bright lights is much more intimidating than that of his little blond-haired partner. He looks at her, then back at me and the snare I'm setting, smirking arrogantly. "Doesn't the little fox know how to catch her dinner by herself?"

I feel my cheeks flush, looking down at their shoes. _They can't hurt you yet,_ I tell myself calmly, _they won't even dare until we're in the arena_. Determined to not show any fear, I open my mouth to tell them to clear off. Embarrassingly, all that escapes my throat is another pathetic whimper. The girl snorts.

"Sounds like a fox, too," she mutters in Marvel's ear. I'm not sure whether I was meant to hear that, or if she genuinely thinks I'm too stupid to understand, but does it matter? I glare up at them in displeasure, then roll my eyes and turn back to my snare. They aren't worth it. I just have to ignore them for now. Despite not being able to see their faces, I'm sure neither of them is too satisfied with their impact. No doubt they were trying to be intimidating, like Careers always are.

"Hey now, Foxie," Marvel purrs coolly, his footsteps dragging promptly over the dirt to stand beside me, "why the cold shoulder? Don't you know it's rude to ignore people when they're talking to you?"

_No, you're not talking to me. You're mocking me!_ I think heatedly, but I don't dare say any of it. The last thing I need is to get anyone here well and truly pissed. I blow a lock of stray ginger hair out of my face in frustration, focusing on tying the final knot of wire in my already poorly-built snare. Seconds later, I hear Marvel's partner waltz her way to the opposite side of me.

"Oh be quiet, Marvel," she hushes him disdainfully. Her voice has a hint of a Capitol accent in it, which isn't uncommon to hear from people in Districts 1, 3 and 7. They _are_ right next to the shining city, after all. "It's obvious she's too _stupid_ to talk."

My eyes bulge as soon as the words leave her mouth; my face flushes again. Not out of embarrassment this time. I clench my hands into fists at my side, ever y fibre in me shouting out for me to make her regret what she just said. Everything in my line of vision turns an ugly shade of bright, fuming red. But I can't lay a finger on her. I glower up at her from the corner of my eye, wishing so desperately that I could wipe that stupid smile off her face.

_No…_I think to myself calmly, _You're better than that. Just take deep breaths._

Obediently, I try to calm myself. I concentrate on my breathing, which is rapid with the humiliation and fury at being called stupid by someone who looks like she gets by on appearance alone. My fingernails are digging into my palm. The breathing isn't helping at all. I need to say something.

"I'm not stupid…" I mumble. Hm…probably not the best option. But it's the only defence I can think of that doesn't involve a long line of expletives.

"I'm sorry, what?" Little Miss District 1 mocks. Her hand cups her ear, her mouth hangs open in imitated confusion. A hint of a smile still lingers on her lips. "You'll have to speak up. We – don't – understand." She makes large, exaggerated hand gestures. As if she was speaking to…_no_.

"_Enough_!" the irate snarl escapes my throat in a voice so unlike my own and before I can stop myself I'm on my feet, lunging out at the girl who clearly doesn't know when she's crossed the line. But to my dismay, I don't make any contact with her. As soon as I've stood my body is restricted by something. They're the only things preventing my hands from being at this girl's throat. Is it a Peacekeeper who's been watching all along, perhaps?

I observe the arms, bare from the elbow down, that have my waist and arms enveloped tightly. No, it's Marvel. He snickers manically, his partner wearing the expression that surely he has too: sadistic, playful, cruel.

"Now what was it, exactly, you planned on doing?" he growls in my ear. Shivers run down my spine. Whatever bravado I had a second ago has completely died. "Huh? Did you think you had the slightest chance against either of us?"

"Like I said: _stupid_," the girl confirms, sauntering forward to close the gap I left. She watches my expression sceptically for a moment, her green eyes a lighter shade than mine. Her smile dulls from sadistically joyful to soft yet threatening. "How long do you think you'll last in the Games, Foxie? A week? Three days? An hour?"

I shrink as far back as I can. Which, in Marvel's tight grip, isn't much.

"Well…you know what I think?" she says boastfully. I shake my head, my eyes wide. "I think you won't make it past the bloodbath."

The corner of her lip tugs smugly (honestly, does she ever stop smiling?). I try to wriggle my way free, but one of Marvel's arms flies up from my stomach to clap around my neck. He chuckles.

"We have a bet, see?" he brags, his mouth still next to my ear, "Glimmer here thinks you'll be one of the first to go, during the bloodbath. I hope different. I hope you last longer, so I can kill you myself. There's no fun in a quick death, is there? No…I think I'd much prefer watching you use your dying breath to beg for mercy."

I know this is no empty threat. In the schoolyard, this talk was considered kids just being mean. _This_, right now, is having my death warrant signed in my own blood. When it comes to matters such as this, a Career will always keep his promise. And right now, I don't think he'll make an exception. Not for anyone. Certainly not for me.

"Face it: your best option is to get it over with," the girl, who I now presume is the one named Glimmer, tells me, "We're going to kill you anyway, whether you co-operate or not." Suddenly, she lashes forward and grabs the collar of my training shirt. Marvel's arms disappear, and I'm dragged forward until my face is an inch from hers. "So I'd tread carefully if I were you, 5. Got it?"

I don't dare say anything; I just nod my head hastily and try not to look too scared. However, I'm sure my eyes are betraying me. I can feel my heart pounding, Marvel's promise of a horrific death bouncing around inside my head. If this is how I act now, what will I be like in the Games? Glimmer makes a small noise of satisfaction, smirking. But she doesn't let me go.

"A fox should always be mindful of who she steals her chickens from." She whispers threateningly, "Some of us don't have the patience for silly games."

With that, she pushes away from me roughly and storms off, Marvel right beside her. I fall back onto the taupe dirt, watching the two of them regroup with the other Careers. They all look pretty pleased with themselves. My eyes flick sheepishly around the rest of the training room, at all the other tributes. I sigh when I see a few of them looking my way pitifully. The girl from 8. Both from 6. Both from 12. The boy from 11. I can see the indecisiveness in his eyes – he doesn't know whether feeling sympathy for me would be weak or not. A feeling understood completely on my part. I don't blame him. I don't blame any of them.

I pull my eyes away from them all and rock myself onto my knees. Brushing myself off, I try to continue with my snare as if nothing had ever happened. But my hands are shaking and uncoordinated. Eventually, I end up setting it off accidentally and hiss in defeat. Cradling the back of my left hand, now burdened with a long cut courtesy of the sharp wire, I self-consciously look over my shoulder at the edible plants station. It's empty. Drawing as little attention to myself as possible, I clamber to my feet and retreat back to my comfort zone. I stay there for the remaining hours of training, kicking myself every few minutes for being too scared to practice fighting skills.

When it's time to leave, finally, I don't linger back like I usually would so I don't have to be pushed around in the swarm of people. Instead I find my district partner – Tao – and walk out with him. We aren't exactly talkative, the two of us. In fact, we didn't even know each other properly before we were reaped. But I knew _of_ him. He may very well be another tribute bent on killing me, hiding it under his shy demeanour, but for now he's the closest thing to home I have.


	3. Memories

"I honestly don't get it with you two! Usually tributes from lesser districts clean their plates before I've even begun!" our Capitol escort, Mime, exclaims to Tao and I during dinner. She's a tall, thin woman with long maroon hair that's always pinned up in a hairstyle that makes me think of some of the Capitol's fountains. Her long eyelashes, fingernails and irises are exactly the same shade. A white and burgundy frilly dress, accompanied by a jewel-encrusted head band and high heels makes me feel underdressed, almost feral in comparison. She's eccentric at the best of times. In the seven years she's been District 5's escort, I don't think I've ever seen her unhappy. Sadly, it gets annoying real quick.

Mime used to be an escort for District 4, but was swapped over with our old escort when he complained about the hum of machinery giving him headaches. Which we all know is a complete lie, because it's all solar powered. The only machinery that hums is at the other end of District 5, repairing and replacing the panels in the Solar Fields. Everyone knows he just couldn't stand being in a district that lost all the time. Mime was a good sport about it. In fact, I think everyone likes her much better. She's always trying to start Reaping Day on a cheery note, despite failing because after all, it is one of the most depressing days of the year. The only problem is her state of mind about the district itself. I hate how she calls us a 'lesser district', among other things, because she's so used to richer and more vicious surroundings. It's the only thing about her that ticks me off. But, as much as I hate to admit it, she's right. My partner and I aren't eating as rabidly as tributes from 5 usually do. Tao's slowly picking away at the mouth-watering steak on his plate, while I've refused to swallow even a mouthful.

"I'm not that hungry," I admit, twirling my fork around in the center of the long strands of noodles that sits in a bowl in front of me.

"Besides," Magna, who is sitting at the opposite end of the table from Mime, continues for me in a cold voice, "some of us don't like to get used to having food whenever we want. I'm sure you recall the problems it's brought up in the past?"

One look at the deathly glare in Mime's crimson eyes, although she is still smiling her best, and I know very well she remembers.

She's a year older than Magna is, who was eighteen when she was reaped for the Games, but in the Capitol you start working in whatever profession you're 'born into' at seventeen. So Mime had already been an escort for District 4 for two years when she and Magna…crossed paths, let's say. That year, the Careers in 4 weren't very disciplined. Not unlike this year. In the Games Magna won, the arena was a vast, rich rainforest. There was so much food – berries, easily caught animals, the occasional sugar cane growing out in a dry, open area. In the beginning, all the Careers that survived the bloodbath took all the food they could, but more was easily found. Hardly anyone went hungry. Except for Magna. She refused to eat until she was weak with hunger, and even then she would spend hours looking for a certain type of berry (usually rare ones) and wouldn't eat anything else. I remember being told how she got no sponsors at all. Because she was 'stupid'. Because she was 'over-disciplined'.

Eventually, as they dwindled down to the final five tributes, the Gamemakers called out a massive flood that wiped out almost all the food. Both tributes from 4, one from 1, one from 6 and Magna were left. They were all smart enough to find higher ground, but 1 and 6 bumped into one another on the second day of the disaster. 1 killed her opponent in an instant, but ended up losing her footing and drowning in the mass of rushing water below. So that left two Careers and the idiotic tribute from a district that almost never wins. Magna had enough sense to hide herself, knowing that the other two would be looking. But everyone knows that when the Games get boring, the Gamemakers interfere to drive everyone together. So, after another day, she climbed into the thick trees and began to secretly follow the Careers. Although no one was killed for a long while, it was suspenseful enough to keep the whole of Panem on the edge of their seats. On the sixth day of the flood, the Games were over.

4 had managed to salvage the tiniest scraps of food before their main stash was washed away. They tried to ration it, but it was gone in less than two days. All thanks to their lack of discipline. None of the plants or berries in that arena were deadly, but what most tributes never figured out was that they had certain effects on whoever consumed them. The most commonly eaten berry was filled with a natural solution that made tributes hungry more often; hunger that could only be satisfied by that particular berry. And the more you ate, the hungrier you became. They depleted quickly, and without any more of them the tributes from 4 were just about going insane. In the hot, humid evening of the final day, the boy was unable to take both the temperate and the hunger pangs. He collapsed in a shivering heap. Magna watched from the safety of a tree, unnoticed, and at least had enough decency to give the girl a minute of grief and mourning before jumping from her hiding place and stabbing a knife into her back. And in one quick moment, it was over. She emerged a victor.

So many Capitol citizens were furious, because they had bet on everyone but her. She was an underdog. No one likes an underdog. But, she won without doing anything to threaten the Capitol – broke none of the unspoken rules like not eating one another and not using the force-field, never showed any hate to the Gamemakers, never challenged anything but the odds – so they had no reason to have her killed. People were really only mad because they'd lost money.

In her interview, she had the audacity to comment on how little self-restraint the two from District 4 had, because her interview angles had been 'gutsy and determined'. It was her plan not to get used to being able to eat whenever she wanted to. She knew better than to trust they'd be there the whole time. And there, on the sidelines, apparently fuming with rage (although I can hardly imagine anything other than a smile on her face), was Mime. She hated Magna with a passion, and always will. The fact that she's even _mentioning_ such a touchy topic astounds me. But, then again, she's always been the toughest in District 5.

A chilling silence hangs in the air between the four of us. You could practically hear a pin drop, it's that quiet. Mime and Magna are giving each other death glares – Mime still with a smile on her face. I can see that she's trying to appear cheery. But really, there'd be no harm in letting it go while she's got those manic red eyes. Right now, she looks more like a nightmarish version of Glimmer.

I look across to Tao, who raises his eyebrows pointedly. Knowing it's time to make a disappearance, we put our cutlery down saying we're full (although I still haven't touched my dinner at all) and hastily left for our rooms.

"I'm going to bed," I say. Whether to myself or to Tao, I don't really know. We've stopped outside our rooms, which are on opposite sides of the hallway. He's looking at me blankly, like he really couldn't care less. I return the stare for a moment, then turn and head to my door.

"Fox…wait," he sighs. I feel the warmth of his hand on the crook of my elbow and turn to see genuine concern in his grey eyes. That horrid little nickname almost doesn't bother me at all. I blink at him for a moment, waiting.

"I saw what happened with you and the Careers today," he admits quietly, and I blush, "You're okay, right?"

A smile finds its way onto my face. I don't quite know what to say to his question, because I'm not completely okay, but my head nods itself and I play along. Thankfully, he seems to buy it. There's a slight pause, then the hand of his that's not holding my arm comes up to rest on my cheek without hesitation. My eyes widen, my breath quickens in fear. _No, no, no!_ my mind screams, _You can't do this to me now! Not when we're days away from turning on each other! Please don't!_ But he doesn't do anything. The warmth of his hands isn't so comforting now.

"You'll tell me if they hurt you, right?" he pleads looking me seriously in the eye. Because of his hand, I fail to turn my gaze from his without my head being jerked back. "Right?"

"Y-yes," I lie, "I'll tell you."

"Good," he smiles, kissing the top of my head. It's easy for him, since he's a year older and an inch or two taller than me. His eyes are sincere, caring – like him. "I care about you, I really do," he admits softly, "maybe not in the way that would drive the Capitol crazy, but it means just as much."

"We only just met each other Reaping Day," I point out dully, but he shrugs.

"So?" he challenges, "Some people you just naturally have a sense of protection over. I can't exactly protect you in the Games – we wouldn't make the most efficient allies – but I _can_ make sure they don't hurt you here. You're like my little sister, and I won't let anything happen to you."

That hits home. Hard. He may very well have just shot me in the chest, with the way my heart's suddenly tightened and every beat sounds like a cannon's fire to me. My mind lulls in space; my eyes glaze over, and I can't tell whether I'm scowling or if tears are starting to drip from my eyes. I can feel my mouth tremble with every sharp breath I draw out of the suddenly stone cold air. A look of shock wipes over his face, which pales considerably. I stare at his mouth moving hastily, stammering, almost panicked, but all those cannons seemed to have deafened me. All I hear is a muffled hum in place of his voice. I blink quickly, my eyes stinging from the hot tears that I now know are there. For a second I'm worried I may very well black out – something I haven't done in a while. But to both my relief and anger, his voice becomes clearer in a matter of seconds.

"…_so_ sorry!" I catch on halfway through his rushed apology, "I…I didn't know…I didn't mean it like that! Fox, you have to believe me –"

"Stop calling me that!" I hiss, and once again my voice sounds unlike my own, "I'm not a fox, and I'm certainly _not_ your little sister!"

I rip myself from his grasp and storm into my room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind me. For a moment I listen for his footsteps to either walk away or come after me. After a slight pause they thankfully head in the opposite direction and seconds later I hear his bedroom door shut too. I press my forehead against the cold, polished wood of the doorway, sniffling as hot, wet trails are slowly made down my cheeks. The tears drip noiselessly from my chin to the plush carpet, my shoulders wracking with sobs that I try to keep as quiet as possible.

He's been gone what's soon to be exactly eleven years, but I can't say I'm over it in the slightest. I can still picture his face, his smile. That smile used to brighten up my whole world. The world feels dark without it. When I curl up in bed, my mind tries to replicate the warmth of the last time he hugged me, before leaving for the Capitol and his imminent death. But I can't reimagine that sort of comfort – that feeling that I'm completely safe. Ever since he left that feeling has been replaced by one of fear and emptiness.

The truth is, I haven't felt this bad about anything since I was twelve. I thought it wouldn't be so bad after a few years. And for a while, I believed myself. The nightmares may still bother me, but I won't feel dejected ever again – is what I'd said. Yet here I stand, slowly sinking down to the floor of my room, back against the door, proving to myself exactly how weak I am. I want to run back to Tao and bury my face in his chest, even if it means throwing the miniscule amount of pride I have left out the window. He'd hold me, let me cry my worries out as he rubbed a hand up and down my back and told me it'd be alright. But I'm willing to hold onto that miniscule amount of pride as tightly and as stubbornly as I can. He's the one who made me feel like this in the first place. If anyone can fix me, I don't want it to be him.

I have no idea what time it is when I lift my face from my hands, but I've surely been down a while. The digital clock on my bedside table glares at me as I drag myself absentmindedly into bed. I stare at the blocky red numbers, but I'm too tired to make any sense of it. The ceiling provides as a much more interesting alternative for staring at when I'm tired. My eyes make a routine of fluttering shut for a few seconds then jolting wide open again. I don't care, I'm not tired enough to want sleep to come desperately. What feels like hours later, but what could've been only half of one, my thoughts become incomprehensible, the line between my Games and my brother's Games blurs and I slip into another night of bad dreams.

* * *

Second day of training, and I'm wishing I could go into the arena and die already. You'd think a week like this would go quite quickly – and the Games, slower than ever – but no. I have three days left in the Capitol but they may as well be measured in centuries. At least I'm not tired. That seems to make the day a bit more bearable. Plus, neither Marvel nor Glimmer (or any other Career, for that matter) have so much as looked my way. Too focused on showing off their skills, most likely.

I find that I'm better than I expected at the light-up targets. It's a station designed to test reflexes and how accurate your aim is under pressure. Magna suggested I give it a try, and at the time I wasn't in the mood to question her. My chest is still tight from last night's crying, and the lack of sleep hasn't helped either.

Sadly, I wasn't able to avoid other tributes when I came over to the station. I picked up four throwing knives, cringing at the thought of using them, and turned around to be met by the snarling features of the girl from 2. That didn't exactly help my chest.

"Five," she acknowledged, eyeing me warily. Behind her I noticed the boys from 2 and 4 grinning our way, waiting to see the outcome. For once, I hoped humiliation would be the worst it got.

I'd mumbled in reply, receiving a dirty look from her. Addressing people by their district number felt odd, and even then I didn't come here prepared to be remotely friendly to anyone else (save for Tao, perhaps). Getting attached to someone is the last thing I've ever wanted to do.

Even now, when she isn't scowling as badly (I think it's just out of concentration now), her features remain similar to that of an angry bobcat. We have a few that prowl outside the fence of District 5 in winter. They're gorgeous creatures when docile, but when they're snarling at you it's terrifying. Like this girl is being now.

The station starts off slowly. There's about a five second gap between flashes. Two light up at a time: one for me and one for 2. When they do, I can see a difference in our skills.

I have a faster reaction time. Much faster. What seems like the moment the target lights up, the knife leaves my hand. Throwing knives are heavier than normal knives, so it doesn't exactly fly through the air at the speed of light, but it gets there. And then…there's my aim. The board we aim for is shaped like a person, with the target printed on their chest area. My knife sticks itself in between where the hips would be. _Ouch_.

Oh well. If I _do_ end up throwing a knife at an attacker, and my attacker happens to be a male tribute, I'll at least be able to escape.

The girl from 2, on the other hand, has the reaction time you might expect from someone three times her age. It's almost as if she was watching another target like she was guessing which one would light up. But she recovered – quickly enough to save her life if this had been real. I almost can't see the knife as it flies from her hand. One second she's holding it and the next it's stuck right on the bullseye of the target, so deep I can't see any of the blade. I stare, bewildered at her speed and accuracy. She smirks back in triumph. Is it possible for her to win with only a handful of knives? How fast can she run? Surely not faster than me. But would I be able to outrun a knife of hers? Not likely. So I best not run into her.

But then I remember that I've already been called as Marvel's kill. This girl is allied with Marvel. She wouldn't dare lay a finger on me…would she?

"You stole my knife!" a loud male voice booms from behind us. Both of us turn to see the beginning of a brawl between the boys from 2 and 6, with 2 clearly being the main offender. I can feel a smirk on the girl's face beside me. _Of course, her district partner,_ I think to myself dully, watching her run off to stand behind him with Glimmer and Marvel. The boy – I think his name is Cato – is yelling as many obscenities as he can at this clearly younger tribute, accusing him of this and that – mostly of taking his knife.

When physical contact is made, Peacekeepers step in to hold Cato back. Not so much the boy from 6, who looks like a fight is the last thing on his mind. He doesn't even look like he stole anything.

"You're the first one I kill in the arena!" Cato yells furiously at him. That's all the younger boy needs to run and hide behind his partner. I know I'd probably just faint on the spot. This Career Tribute is so much more dangerous than Marvel is. And at least I wasn't promised to be first.

Just as the fight is officially broken up (to the point where Cato may not run up and snap the poor boy's neck anymore), the buzzer sounds for lunch. That in itself is to give me an energy boost. Four more hours until I can retire to my room. Cato still looks pissed, kicking over a few things. I shake my head and can't help but roll my eyes in disgust. _Careers_. So arrogant. So uncontrolled. So bigheaded. So _stupid_.

My eyes flick back to them for a moment. Originally just for a moment, but my gaze becomes glued. My face pales. Because apparently my look of repulsion didn't go by unnoticed. All four of them – every single one is eyeing me now. Scowling. Especially Cato's little partner. She's snarling again, her expression both manic and protective at the same time. Is he her brother? Her best friend? Her boyfriend? Whatever he is, she doesn't like my loathing of him. And I'm not too fond of her either.

All of a sudden, the ground has become surprisingly interesting as I shuffle away quickly. Food awaits me, although I'm not exceptionally hungry. What matters is that it's in a room full of people I can hide behind. They aren't friends, or even acquaintances, but some of them are tough.

That's when he catches my eye. The boy from 11. Tall, dark skin, my age, and _very_ muscular. What a contrast he and his little twelve-year-old partner make. By the looks of his tough expression, he isn't here to make friends or alliances of any sort either, but if I stood even a meter from him perhaps it would deter the Careers. It's cowardly, but if it means survival (even if they are strictly forbidden from hurting anyone until the Games), I'll do it.

I walk with the throng of people through the corridor to where we eat lunch. Each district tends to sit at their own table, but I've noticed 1 and 2 like to sit together. I either sit on my own or with Tao, when he isn't talking tactics with 9. Obviously he's made an alliance with them. I wonder how long that'll last.

The hallway is dark, unlike the rest of the building. There's a light at the end, accentuating the bob of heads in the crowd. I can't tell who is who, apart from the girl I'm walking next to – the girl from 12. Although she seems kind and obviously doesn't want to be here anymore than I do, she scares me a bit. That 'Girl on Fire' gimmick makes her very strong in the Capitol's eyes. And that was only in the Tribute Parade – what's she going to be like in her interview? I can only imagine that she'd be just as intimidation.

But right now, the Careers scare me more than she does. At least she may have some sympathy; I don't mind her walking beside me. But the Career Tributes this year are all bloodlust and eager to sink their claws into other tributes, and they're all standing right behind me.

* * *

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